


somewhere in between a thorn, an acquiescent

by the_everqueen



Series: songs for bitter children [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (more characters and relationships will be established in future additions to the series), (where It All Begins), Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Canon Era, Gen, featuring Herc as the dad-friend Alex obviously needs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 20:49:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_everqueen/pseuds/the_everqueen
Summary: Alexander Hamilton is Washington's son. Hamilton knows, Washington doesn't. Of course, this does not prevent Alexander from considering a position on the General's staff.





	somewhere in between a thorn, an acquiescent

**Author's Note:**

> a long time ago, someone suggested to @herowndeliverance the inverse of the concept behind her An Aegis Very Essential series: Hamilton is Washington's son, but this time Hamilton knows and Washington does not. she kindly let me run with this idea and all its implications. thanks to her and Swan for their help and patience as i took Forever to write this. title for the fic is from Radical Face's "Bad Blood," title for the series from TMG "Counting Songs for Bitter Children."

Later that night, in the relative privacy of his tent, Alexander turns the letter over in his hands, feeling its weight. It’s too dark to see more than the slanted, looping script, but he’s memorized the brief contents. _His Excellency General Washington requests the presence of Capt. Hamilton at his headquarters on the morning of January 20th._ Simple, direct. No margin for personal style or speculation. 

That doesn’t stop Alex from wondering all the same. What does Washington want with him?  

It might be a promotion. The General commended him for his leadership at Harlem Heights, but that was a brief conversation: Alexander gritted out a polite thanks, bowed, and turned back to  shoveling dirt onto the earthwork. (Coward, he thinks, looking back on it, but he can also still taste the bile at the back of his throat, feel the way his chest went tight as though all the air had gone out of him. Not that he could ever have said the words inside him, hot and bitter and always on the edge of his teeth.) Still, his brigade enabled the General to make his retreat at the river last month, and their performance at Princeton is already becoming a legend -- he heard one account where his cannon decapitated a portrait of George II, another where Alex ran through direct fire and came out unscathed. He grins a little. A promotion would not be misplaced. 

Except a promotion wouldn’t come with a request to appear at headquarters. The smile slides from his face. He should have received a letter of transfer, orders to report to a new commander. Maybe it’s a reprimand? But then he can’t think for what.  

He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t notice Hercules come in until the man is waving a hand in front of his face. “Hammie, you should be asleep.” 

Alex jerks back, dropping the letter. “ _Christ_.”  

“Watch your damn mouth.” Herc settles onto the end of the cot. “Remind me how you’re an artillery captain when you have the reflexes of a dead cat.” 

“I’m not distracted with correspondence on the battlefield.” 

“You can’t even read that, it’s dark as pitch in here.” 

Alex hums and picks up the letter from his chest. Herc is watching him, and without seeing his face, Alex knows he’s wearing a concerned expression. He is familiar with the look after spending some months at the Mulligan residence and from anyone else it would rankle, but Herc is different, for two reasons. One, the man keeps secrets like a miser, and two, he doesn’t shy from giving an honest opinion, both qualities Alex can appreciate.  

 _Actually_...   

Alex isn’t stupid. He can take care of himself. But the words he’s holding eat at him, all the things he isn’t sure of anymore, and he knows Herc won’t lie to him. It could be a kind of exchange: Alex tells him about this, and later Herc asks him for indeterminate favor depending on how much the information is worth to him. He considers, and decides he can live with that.  

He holds out the letter. “What if I told you my father wrote to me?” 

Herc moves to the front of the tent and raises the letter up to the pale moonlight. He looks at it for a long time, much longer than it would take to read. Then, without comment, he resumes his seat on the cot and tosses the letter at Alex. “I’d say you had better get me well drunk before you expect me to swallow a story like that.” 

Alex gives a humorless laugh. “Are you casting negative aspirations on my character?” 

Herc stares at him. “Have you been drinking?”

He presses his lips together, shakes his head. 

“Well, shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You told Burr you were an orphan.” 

“For all intents and purposes,” Alex says. “I mean, my father wasn’t around, he might as well be dead.” 

“The General --” 

“Doesn’t know. At least, I think he doesn’t.” 

A pause. “You know this sounds insane, right?” 

“Yes, well, excuse me for trying to provide you with some context.” 

Herc swats him. “If... _if_... you’re not trying to pull some elaborate hoax -- which given the difference in our respective sizes would be a bad idea -- what does that have to do with the letter you got?”  

Alex shrugs.  

“You think he found out? About… you?”

“Of course not. Even if he did, he wouldn’t call attention to the matter. That would blight his reputation and, by extension, our cause.” Voicing his thoughts aloud makes them feel more concrete, more sensible. If there is one thing Alex is certain of in regard to Washington, it’s that he values appearance -- not in the shallow sense, though even in passing Alex noticed his uniform was immaculate and well-made, but in the sense that outside perception matters. “The war is as much a clash of ideologies as it is a battle between armies, maybe more so. The soldiers need a commander who embodies virtue and strength, not one who left behind his bastard son in the West Indies.”  

Alex bites his lip. “Unless…” 

“What?” 

“He could dismiss me. Discredit me before any rumors start.” 

“Nah, that’s just as bad. You did good at Princeton -- there’s no reason to dismiss you, that would just attract the wrong kind of attention.” Herc pats his shoulder. “Sorry, dude, but you’re stuck with us.” 

Alex exhales. Sure, he could have reached the same conclusion on his own, but Herc’s hand on his shoulder is a comforting weight not easily replicated.  

“Maybe it’s a promotion?”  

Herc shakes his head. “Does it matter? You got orders.” 

Maybe not, but he wants to know what he’s up against. His shoulders slump.  

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Guess I’ll find out.” 

He doesn’t have a choice.

 

“Your Excellency, you wanted to see me?” 

Washington waves at him without looking up from his papers. “Hamilton, come in.” 

Alex stands at attention a few feet from the desk. He expects an order, a scolding for some unperceived recklessness -- at very least an explanation for why he’s been called here -- but Washington ignores him and continues to shuffle through his papers, movements careful and unhurried. Alex tries not to fidget. The last time he encountered the General, he’d had work to do, something to keep his hands occupied. Now there’s nothing to do but wait. 

His eyes flick around the tent, come back to rest on Washington.  

It’s hard not to make comparisons. Congress chose George Washington to lead the Continental Army for a number of reasons, and surely one was sheer mythic impact. He _looks_ like a general, broad chest and shoulders, expression carved from marble. Alex thinks bitterly that if the man wasn’t going to stick around long enough to bequeath his name, he could’ve at least spared a couple extra inches in height.   

They are nothing alike. Alex tries to take comfort in the fact. No one could look at him and see Washington in his wire-taut frame, his shooting off at the mouth, his exposed hunger. Instead, for a fleeting moment, he feels adrift, untethered to anything in this world. There is the cold knowledge that his eyes are the mirror image of someone long dead, and that he is alone. _Alex, you’ve gotta fend for yourself._  

Stupid, he’s been on his own for most of his life. It’s nothing new. But suddenly he can’t bear to be waiting. 

He blurts out, “Have I done something wrong, sir?” 

Washington glances up as though he’s just remembered Alex is there. “No, in fact. Quite the opposite.” 

Alex holds his breath. 

“Your reputation precedes you. The reports say you stole British cannons while we were still downtown, not to mention your bravery at Princeton. You’ve got a hunger -- I can appreciate that, though I do wonder.” Washington gives a dry chuckle, the hard line of his mouth softening slightly in amusement. “Hamilton, how come no one can get you on their staff?” 

A reprimand, then. “Sir --”

“Generals Greene and Knox tried to hire you.” 

“I signed on to be a soldier, not a secretary.” 

His voice comes out sharper than he intended, hint of venom there, and he flinches. But Washington looks at him with a curious expression. “Why are you upset?” 

 _Because you abandoned my mother to die. Because you’re the reason dad left. Because that letter should have gone to you._  

He swallows hard. “I’m not.” 

“It’s all right that you want to fight,” Washington says, his tone paternal and grating. “I remember being your age, head full of fantasies about dying on a battlefield in glory.” 

“I’d rather die a martyr than stand to the side.” 

Washington raises an eyebrow. “We’re in a war, son. Dying is easy.” 

He doesn’t know. Oh god, he doesn’t know. And of course Alex has been telling himself so for years -- couldn’t stand to consider the alternative -- but the appellation settles it for him. Washington wouldn’t call him son if he knew.  

The ground under his feet feels sure again. “With all due respect, sir, why are you telling me this?” 

Washington sighs. “I’m being honest. Congress has promised me troops that haven’t come, we’re in a state of constant retreat, our men lack supplies - and my aides can’t keep up with the correspondence. They embellish my eloquence, but I need someone who can think for me, someone to lighten the load of decisions that take me from larger concerns.”  

“So, a secretary.” 

“Should you accept, you’ll be promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel.” 

Alex considers. He might not believe in the General, but he believes in the war, and the fate of the war depends on the myth of Washington. Alex is familiar with myths; he cut his teeth on Plutarch, after all. He’s confident he could write one.  

The real question is whether he can work under Washington. Whether he can hold the secret under his tongue without breaking it in such close quarters. It would ruin the both of them: Washington’s sterling character tarnished, Alexander branded as the bastard who used his connection to the General to launch his military career. On the other hand -- a promotion. A chance to be involved in the decisions that will determine the course of the war. Sure, Alex craves the blood-singing focus of the battlefield, the brush of death so close it raises all the hairs on his arms, but it’s not as though he won’t ever see action as an aide, and maybe the jump to lieutenant colonel means he could get his own battalion.  

Nobody knows, besides him and Mulligan, who keeps secrets better than the dead. Nobody _needs_ to know.  

Washington is watching him. “Well, Hamilton. Shall I welcome you to the family?”

Alex raises his chin. “When do I start?”

 

Five days later there’s an advertisement in the Pennsylvania Post: “Capt. Alexander Hamilton, of the New York company of artillery, by applying to the printer of this paper, may hear of something to his advantage.” 

Alex moves into headquarters that afternoon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> much of my characterization for Hamilton in this series comes from his letter to Philip Schuyler upon quitting Washington's staff, particularly the paragraph which contains this bit: "Infected however with the enthusiasm of the times, an idea of the Generals character which experience soon taught me to be unfounded, overcame my scruples and induced me to accept his invitation to enter into his family." obviously i'm playing with the historical facts, but the summons and the later advert in the Post are taken from Chernow's account.
> 
> i'm at tumblr @the-everqueen, feel free to chat


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